Bleeding Vulnerable
I wonder what we can birth together if we tear ourselves wide open for each other?
Tonight I died.
I’ve died and been reborn a hundred thousand times in this lifetime.
When I died I felt the old me gently fall away from the back of my body—the past, and the new me move through the front of my body—the present, the future. And I wonder. Why is, “What’s next,” so raw in its terror? So primal. Am I born with my claws out?
I was dancing in community and became the ash I allowed myself to burn into years ago. Sinking to the floor, scattering the earth with who I once was. Over and over and over. Settling into desolate. Before. No more. A thing to honor and mourn and wonder.
I woke fearing the severing of the womb, the loneless. Being motherless. I became a newborn, crying. Surprised I was in an adult body. Losing the warmth and constraint. Shocked at the breath in my lungs. The sound—a voice. I have a voice. A pack of wolves. A squawking fledgling. Which was I? Blurry vision, weak neck. Helpless. Grasping. Where is my mother?
Someone tapped my shoulder. A friend’s face above me as I held my trance. Gentle, comforting. I sat up. She gently pushed my shoulder back down, letting me be new born. I laid back down.
Feeling my surroundings in their newness.
Where is my mother? Who is she? The one who birthed this body that has died a hundred thousand times is not my mother. A mother holds, listens, sees, knows.
“I am your mother,” I heard.
The earth beneath me. The candles flickering. The room full of community. The music, healing. The insects and the night sky of stars I can’t see under the roof, the rest in my own body. My voice as it cries in relief.
My breath as it connects to their breath—your breath.
I settle into a calm, knowing the voice of my mother, though my own still feels unfamiliar. I wonder what it will sound like in a year? Knowing I am safe. Understanding I am held, seen, loved, connected, present. An infantile understanding of birth—profound rest and care needed as I make my way into exciting and grand adventures that required the ripping open of a body, the blood and cries and screams of another—sacred.
Quiet now. Quiet. Rest.
Like your breath with mine. The vibration of your own newness, each day a death and rebirth if you choose. With me. Each other’s holding mother, loving mother, knowing mother.
I am scared. I am scared to hear my own voice—that it will go unanswered. I startle at loud sounds. I worry my reflexes find no one.
But somewhere I hear a heartbeat still, an echo or another womb?
I touch the earth and she reverberates all our heartbeats, resonating something deeper I cannot see or measure. And I wonder how we are each other’s mothers and each other’s souls at the same time. But it makes sense even as I wonder. Perhaps the earth is our collective womb and we are simply born into a new one each time.
I wonder what we can birth together if we tear ourselves wide open for each other?
I choose all of this, sending pictures of my tears, sincere. Not meant for you, but what are my emotions are your emotions, and yours mine, so meant for you after all.
For you, I cry and scream and rip myself open, bleeding vulnerable.
I am a modern-day bard. I don’t do conventional. I find power and healing in storytelling and other art forms, as witnessing, as connection—something humanity and the other worlds desperately seek. This is a sacred calling for me that I gratefully accept.
Email me your brief story—the messy, the ugly, the regretful, the celebratory, the humorous, the joyful—whatever is asking to be seen in your full human magic. You will get a copy of your story first. I will only publish it if you approve. Alongside my own stories, I will write and share it in my words that allow everyone to connect with- and see you, because you deserve that. Sometimes in prose, sometimes verse.
Please list 3-5 emotions you felt during this story, so I can capture your true experience. These are anonymous and will be written to reflect that safety. Let’s heal together.
Email: wrenarlowrites@gmail.com